


Highlights

by awbarton_no



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Night Terrors, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trips, both of the last two are very brief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awbarton_no/pseuds/awbarton_no
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts when Bucky moves into Clint's building in Bed-Stuy. After that...well. Clint thinks he might need to talk to someone about film rights for a rom-com.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highlights

**Author's Note:**

> Updated! Now with amazing art by Alyssa! ([thatflyguyhawkeye](http://thatflyguyhawkeye.tumblr.com) on tumblr and [PlaidHunters](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaidHunters/) here on ao3) Bask in its glory and just _try_ to tell me it isn't the actual coolest. (You can't, because it is in fact the actual coolest.)

[](http://s1024.photobucket.com/user/awbarton-no/media/Highlights%20with%20title_zpsvwrlgge8.jpg.html)

_Noise Complaint_

It takes Lucky jumping on Clint’s bed to wake him up; can’t sleep in the hearing aids, and can’t hear a knock on the door without them. Someone is apparently pretty insistent, too, because Lucky seems frantic.

“Down, Pizza Dog, get down, I’m coming...”

Groggy, Clint sits up in bed and looks at the stark red numbers of the clock as he fiddles with his hearing aids, hooking them over his ears once they’re settled. That done, he runs his hands over his face, chasing away the last of his exhaustion before he shuffles out of bed and to his front door. 3AM is way too early for this shit.

The woman standing there with a toddler on her hip looks unhappy and every bit as tired as Clint feels. “Hey, Simone. Sorry, I didn’t hear you knocking.” He gestures to his ears. “What’s up?”

Simone sighs, stormy expression vanishing. “Hey, Clint. I hate to bother you at this time of night, but the guy in 4D is...” She shoots a look at the kid. “Well, I’m here to put in a noise complaint, let’s put it like that.” 

“Aw, 4D, no.”

“Yeah. Look, Clint, this little one has to get some sleep.” She tilts her head toward the toddler. “He’s been sick, and he’s just now getting over it. Think you could talk to 4D?”

Clint nods and follows Simone down the hall, telling her goodnight when she heads downstairs and he heads further down the hall to 4D. Bucky’s an alright dude, friends with Steve after what Nat said was a total shitshow of a throwdown in DC. He hadn’t wanted to live at the upstate complex with the other Avengers, not after what happened in Germany and in Siberia. Clint could sympathize, and he had a unit open anyway. 

He bangs on the door. “Hey, Barnes! Open up, man, we gotta talk.”

The girl who opens the door is definitely not Bucky. Clint stares. “Uh...You’re... You are not my tenant.”

The brunette girl blushes. “He’s, uh... He’s a little busy right now.” 

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose. “Could you like...go get him or something? Please. It's urgent.” 

She bites her lip, looking uncertain, but turns and calls into the apartment. “Hey Bucky! I think your landlord needs to talk to you.”

Bucky shows up at the door wearing nothing but a blanket wrapped semi-securely around his waist, and Clint can feel a headache coming on. This is not what he wanted out of his night.

“Hey, Barton. What can I do for you?” Scratch that; Bucky is also wearing a grin that is practically an invitation in and of itself. Clint rolls his eyes internally. 

“Simone came knocking at my door a couple of minutes ago. You know. Simone, single mother, lives in 3D, right below you.” Bucky’s smirk is replaced by a mortified expression (but not too mortified—Bucky Barnes has very little shame as far as Clint can tell), and Clint doesn’t even want to know. “Maybe keep it down. I might have to evict you or something, but I hear Tony has room at his place.” Is that a low blow? It might be. Clint wishes he could take it back, but it’s 3AM and he’s always liked Simone and her boys.

Bucky looks halfway between pissed and still mortified, but he lets the jab go and nods at Clint instead. “Sure, no problem.”

“Great. Goodbye and goodnight.”

_Noise Complaint 2: Bucky is Still Fucking Loud_

The door to 4D swings open, just a little bit, and a groggy-looking James Buchanan Barnes pokes his head into the hallway. “What, Barton?”

“You're being loud again, you prick. Simone was at my door again,” Clint explains without ceremony. “I'm serious. Do not make me send you to Tony’s place. His walls are soundproof—and I think the floors probably are too—but somehow I don't think he wants you dragging people into, you know.” Clint leans in and whispers conspiratorially. “Avengers business.” He leans on the doorframe, making Bucky lean backwards, and drums his fingers on the wood. “Don't make me throw you out, bro.”

Bucky glares blearily. “If you must know,” he said, voice rough, “I'm alone.”

Clint raised his eyebrows. “Goodness.”

Another glare. “That's not what I meant, Clint.”

“Alright. Sure.”

“I'm serious. Any banging Simone heard was probably your shitty plumbing, Barton. _I_ was asleep, which makes _you_ the asshole that woke me up on a false noise complaint.” Bucky squinted at him. “You drunk, Barton?”

“Nope,” Clint said, trying not to slur too badly. He was just thankful that Simone hadn't brought the boys with her to his door. “So you're alone?”

“I'm alone, and the noise is your shitty building.” Bucky smirked at him. “Unless you wanna join me?”

Clint squinted this time. “I can't tell if you're kidding or not.”

“Of course I'm kidding,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes, “but if you can't flirt with your landlord-slash-friend, who can you flirt with? Here,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into his apartment. “Have a plum.” He put a plum in Clint’s hand when he came back to the door. 

“What's this for?”

“Gotta eat something, Barton, and I'm pretty damn sure I haven't seen you carry in groceries for weeks. Probably have nothing but coffee over in 4A, and that won't do you any good at this time of night.”

“.......You eat plums?”

“All the time.” Bucky shrugged. “Agency, man, and I like ‘em.”

Clint shrugged back. “Whatever.” He bit into the plum. “Thanks, Barnes. Sorry for bothering you. ‘Night.”

“Goodnight, Barton.”

_Fire Hazard_

Bucky blames Clint for everything. It’s the middle of August and the AC in Clint’s building is utter shit, so anyone with half sense has their doors and windows open, trying to circulate the breeze and share it with the rest of the building.

It’s not working, but none of the tenants stop hoping, which is why Bucky hears it very clearly when there’s a shout, a yelp, and a crash from 4A―Clint’s apartment, of course. Bucky may or may not grab a kitchen knife on his way out the door, Winter Soldier senses on high alert. (Very old dog, not so hot on new tricks; this one, at least, is useful when you live with Trainwreck Superhero Clint Barton.)

He should probably be surprised that the Black Widow is there, given that last he heard she was dealing with something in Berlin, but it’s been a long time since Natasha could surprise him.

“Nat,” he greets her. “Thought you were in Germany.”

“Ended it quickly.”

“When did you get back Stateside?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

Bucky doesn’t comment on the fact that it takes longer than that to get from Manhattan to Bed-Stuy, much less from DC, where her mission was supposedly based. “So what exactly is happening here?”

“Clint nearly set himself and Lucky on fire, from what I gathered.” There’s the sound of a lot of coughing from inside Clint’s apartment, paired with the smell of something burning. Hair, maybe, or a shirt. It’s hard to tell in the stuffy hallway. “Clint?” Natasha shouts into the apartment.

More coughing, followed by an answering shout of “In here, Nat! Do me a favor and grab Bucky from 4D?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m already here, you trainwreck,” he calls into 4A. “What the hell did you do?” He enters Clint’s apartment carefully, dreading some of those trick arrows or some other trap. “Clint?” 

“Avoid the panicked dog and walk towards the sound of my voice, guys.” The further they get into the apartment, the more smoke they encounter. Clint sounds hoarse, like he’s been inhaling it. Bucky internalizes his dismayed shake of the head. What a trainwreck. The smoke doesn’t clear, but Bucky and Nat can see Clint more clearly as they move towards him. He waves, of all things.

“Hey. So I might have set my shirt on fire.” His shirt is, indeed, still smoldering. Or, what’s left of it is. The shirt has partially burned away, though Clint looks mostly unharmed, which completely baffles Bucky since fire doesn’t work like that.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “What did you do, Hawkeye.” It isn’t really a question.

“The match snapped! It’s not my fault it was lit and that it hit me in the chest!” He looks down at the remains of his clothing. “Aw, shirt, no.”

Bucky can feel a headache coming on.

_Late-Night_

Lucky is trying to dig a hole through the mattress, Clint is convinced, because he’s been pawing for like a minute straight now and doesn’t show any inclination to stop until Clint gets up and follows him. “Alright, Lucky, alright. I’m coming,” he grumbles. He doesn’t bother with the hearing aids; when someone is at the door, Lucky just lays on him and headbutts him. The mutt doesn’t get antsy like this. More likely than not, he’s heard something on the roof, like a pigeon or some shit, and just wants to stare out the window at it until it flies away.

Clint is humoring his dog now. What a world. Not even his dog, really, considering that Lucky is technically stolen. From the mob. Oops.

Lucky heads straight out of Clint’s bedroom, down the steps and over to the front door before Clint is even coherent enough to realize that that means they’re going outside the apartment. Which means Clint should probably put on pants that are less raggedy than his current sweats. But whatever, that requires too much effort and brainpower, so instead he barely remembers to snatch up Lucky’s leash from the kitchen countertop before opening the door. Lucky races down the hall, clearly on a mission, and stops outside 4D. Bucky’s apartment.

Lucky stares up at him, making the face he makes when he whines. Clint looks back down at the mutt. “What,” he asks, “you think I oughta knock?”

The dog blinks.

Clint shrugs. “You’re the boss. I guess. You have the ears and the sixth sense anyway, which is two and a half more than I’ve got.” He raises a hand and raps at the door. “Barnes? It’s Clint. I don’t have my ears in, man, you’re gonna have to open the door or something.” 

They wait for Bucky to come to the door, and when he doesn’t, Lucky gets nervous again. Clint pets the dog’s ears, trying to reassure him, and knocks again. “Barnes? Bucky. You okay in there?” Still no answer. Lucky leans into Clint’s leg, scratches at the door a few times, and whines loud enough that Clint can feel it vibrating through the dog’s chest and into his own leg. “Alright, buddy, we’re going in.” 

He tries the doorknob, and isn’t really that surprised when it doesn’t open. Clint’s pretty sure Bucky put in an extra deadbolt and replaced the flimsy, rusted chain when he moved in. He’s also sure that he won’t be able to pick it, or even to kick it down, so he does the next best thing: he climbs into the air vent, leaving an agitated Lucky on the other side of the door as he drops quietly into Bucky’s living room. 

Whoever designed the building had obviously not been able to make up their mind―this unit is laid out a lot differently than Clint's own. It’s all one level, for one thing, not a maisonette like his. (Maisonette―he’d looked it up.) So when he opens the door for Lucky, who seems to know exactly what the trouble is, Pizza Dog makes a beeline for the tiny corner bedroom. All Clint can do is follow and hope Lucky knows what he’s doing.

“Barnes?” Clint speaks hesitantly as he walks towards the bedroom, wary without his ears but trusting Lucky that something is amiss. 

Lucky has no such reservations, leaping right onto Bucky’s bed. Clint almost stops him―and then he notices the way Bucky twitches, more and more violently with every second. He’s full on thrashing within moments; Lucky is dodging the flailing limbs, particularly the metal arm. Clint is in motion before he knows what he’s doing, pulling Lucky out of harm’s way and doing his best to avoid getting punched himself.

“Barnes,” he says, not daring to touch Bucky until it seems he has no other option. “Barnes, it’s us, it’s Clint and Lucky. I need you to wake up, okay? You’re safe, you’re in Bed-Stuy in my shitty apartment building.” Bucky keeps thrashing around, shouting loud enough that even Clint can tell he’s about to wake the whole building. 

Clint bites the bullet and dives in, taking a (metal) punch directly to the eye in his attempt to get a hand on each of Bucky’s shoulders, flesh and metal. “Bucky!”

It takes a few minutes (that feel like a few decades) of saying his name over and over again, but eventually, Bucky settles. Clint’s face smarts, but he doesn’t let go of Bucky until Bucky opens his eyes, looking worse than Clint has felt in months.

Bucky sits bolt upright, looking panicked and horrified all at once. Lucky jumps back up on the bed, and Bucky flinches. “Shit,” he mouths―no, wait, Clint is just missing his ears. “Bar--n? ...Lucky? Wha-ar you doing ear?”

Clint gestures at his ears, signaling that Bucky is going to have to talk slow. (He doesn’t look like that will be too difficult.) “Lucky woke me up. Seemed pretty concerned about something going on over here.”

“-ow did you -et in?”

He points up. “Air vents.”

Bucky heaves a sigh and drags his hands through his hair a couple of times before focusing back in on Clint. “Cheeses,” he mumbles. No, wait, that’s probably Jesus. Damn, this is hard in the semidarkness without his aids. “I’m sorry.” Bucky waves a hand at his own eye, and Clint realizes that there must already be a hell of a bruise forming on his right eye where Bucky punched him.

“It’s nothing,” he says dismissively. “Sorry I’m not so great at being a sympathetic ear.” He hesitates, not sure if what he’s about to say is going to make Bucky clam up or not. After all, he’s Steve’s best friend, and he’s only Bucky’s landlord/teammate/sorta-friend. But the poor guy looks like he could use someone who’s not thirty-plus minutes away. “But...if you want to talk about it, Bucky, you can. I’ll listen. Or read your lips. Whatever.” 

Bucky stares at him for a second, but it’s like he’s debating where to start, not whether or not he should move as far away as possible. “...You might want to Gatorades,” he says, very deliberately, except it’s probably _get your aids_. Which means Bucky wants to talk, which is good, but also that Clint has to either leave him or make him walk down the hall, both of which are not good.

It’s probably quicker to run down the hall and grab the aids, put them in on the fly. Still, he gives Bucky a long look before he so much as moves. “You gonna be alright for a sec?” Bucky nods, so Clint stands. “Lucky.” The dog looks up from where he’s lying in Bucky’s lap, looking for all the world like it’s the best possible spot in the apartment for a dog to be. He’s probably not wrong. “Good boy,” he says, meaning stay. Lucky looks like he gets it.

He grabs his hearing aids and gets them in in record time.

*  
Bucky pets Lucky’s head absentmindedly, waiting for Clint to return and feeling incredibly grateful that the mutt seemed pretty comfortable sitting with his head on Bucky’s thigh and one front paw resting on his bare ankle. It had been a long time since he got to pet a dog. He tried not to think about the dogs Hydra had sometimes sent with him. Lucky whined like he knew what Bucky was thinking, and Bucky focused on this dog instead.

Clint comes back quickly, hands still at one ear as he fiddles with getting the second hearing aid hooked over his ear. “Alright,” he says when it seems settled. The archer moves carefully, like he doesn’t want to startle Bucky, but not like he’s afraid of him. Bucky is grateful for that too.

He eyes the right side of Clint’s face and feels a stab of guilt at the bruise that’s already blackening his eye and spreading across his cheekbone. “Barton, I― I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Clint waves it off. “You’re not the first person to give me a black eye and I doubt you’ll be the last.”

Bucky leans forward a little, catching Clint’s eye and holding contact. “Clint,” he says seriously. “Really. I’m sorry.”

“...I know. It’s alright, Bucky.” There’s silence for a second as Bucky catches his breath and Clint just lets him. “...So...what happened?”

“Nightmare.” Bucky curls his fingers, the flesh ones, into the coarse fur on Lucky’s shoulders. “Happens every.... They happen. Usually I wake myself up either screaming or punching something that isn’t there. Hydra or the Soviets or an Axis soldier.” He shrugs his mismatched shoulders and tries not to feel sick. Lucky sighs in his lap.

Clint doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just sits quietly on Bucky’s bed and pats Lucky’s flank. “You wanna talk about it?”

Ten minutes ago, Bucky was ready, but now that he’s started to get some of the words out, they’re starting to stick, and he’s not sure talking is what he wants to do anymore. He shakes his head. “Not really. But I don’t really want it to be quiet either. Talk about something funny?”

So Clint tells him about all of the Avengers’ biggest slip-ups, like the time Thor aimed a bolt of lightning before Tony could get out of the way while they were fighting over the ocean. Or the time that Hulk accidentally smashed a wall onto Clint in Latveria; Bruce had felt awful until Clint’s ribs healed up. (No one talks about the single time Nat had fallen out of an air vent, on pain of death. Clint had laughed at the time, and landed perfectly on the ground next to her when he followed her out of the vent. She’d nearly killed him, and then Hydra had nearly killed him.)

Bucky laughs until his ribs ache at the thought of the Black Widow falling out of an air vent. “Oh, God,” he says, “that’s fucking hilarious. She’ll kill me if she finds out I know about that.”

Clint desperately tries to get a breath in past the laughter. “She’ll kill me if she finds out I told you, first.,i>Then she'll kill you.”

The go quiet after a second, sitting on Bucky’s bed in comfortable silence as Bucky continues to pet Lucky and Clint just sort of zones out while staring at them both. 

“You know, you and the dog are kinda the same.” Bucky looks up at that, confusion written all over his face. “No, no,” Clint says, still halfway zoned out, “listen. You’re both ex-Russian ex-guard dogs who like pizza, for some reason put up with my shit, and deserve so, so much better than what you got.”

Bucky’s hand goes still on top of Lucky’s head, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I ever tell you that Lucky got thrown in front of a car for trying to keep his tracksuit dracula owners off of me?” Bucky shakes his head. “He did. I fed him one slice of shitty pizza, and next thing I knew I was carrying him to the vet after a fight.” Clint lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Then I denied that he was my dog until he came out of surgery. Didn’t want to get attached to a dog that wasn’t going to make it.”

“But he made it.”

Clint nods. “Yeah, he did. And he’s safe now.” He zones back in, finally, and reaches out, putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re both safe now, okay? I know it’s not gonna be an easy fix, but...you’re safe, Bucky. Lucky and I have gotcha.”

Lucky sits up, licks Bucky’s face, and Bucky believes them.

_Movie Night_

“That is...not how it worked,” Bucky says one night, sounding queasy as a montage of Ivan Drago training vs. Rocky Balboa training flickers across Clint’s TV screen. “I was in Russia during the Cold War and I am here to tell you that that is not how they spent their time.”

“It’s a metaphor, Barnes,” Nat drawls.

“You were a kid when this came out, Nat,” Clint comments. 

“What, like you were an old man?”

“Yes.”

“You were like seven, Clint, you aren’t an old man until you hit ten, at least.”

“I’m still not convinced by this movie, guys,” Bucky cuts in.

Steve wanders in from the kitchen, coffee in one hand and staring down at what looks like a very old, very full sketchbook and not looking up until Rocky expresses his awe at seeing Adrian standing in the snowy Siberian landscape. Out of the corner of Clint’s eye, Steve looks confused. “Are you watching a Rocky movie? Which one is this?”

Clint cranes his head back over the back of the sofa he, Bucky, and Nat have all sort of piled haphazardly onto. “Four. This one on your list?”

Shaking his head, Steve flops onto the only other comfy chair. Clint thinks he really needs to consider expanding his comfortable furniture options, especially now that there are people he actually wants to spend leisure time with. “Nah,” Steve says, letting out a big gust of air. “In fact I was told that nothing after Rocky II was really important, anyway, and not to even bother.”

Clint’s head practically spins with the speed at which he turns to look at Steve. “What heretic told you that?!”

“Some SHIELD junior agent, I think,” Steve shrugs, “I don’t really remember, that was a long time ago.”

“1918 was a long time ago, you fossil. That couldn’t’a been before 2012.”

Everyone turns in surprise to look at Bucky, who lets the comment slip out completely nonchalantly. He’s still watching the second part of the training montage, eyes glued to the screen while “Hearts on Fire” motivates Rocky on his run through knee-deep Siberian snow.

“Savage,” Nat comments dryly, somehow managing to sounds both impressed and unsurprised at the same time.

Steve blinks, mouth open like a fish, and then recovers. “Shit, Buck,” he teases lightly, “you’re callin’ me ‘fossil’ like you’re not _older than me_.” There’s laughter in his blue eyes as he throws a pencil at his best friend, who bats it away with his metal arm—directly into Clint’s face.

Clint kicks Bucky’s thigh as punishment, though it doesn’t get him anything more than a slight smirk and a wink that is rougish and completely unapologetic. Clint feels his pulse do something funny.

_Starry Night_

Stargazing in New York _sucks_ these days, Bucky decides. He can’t remember if he could actually see more stars in the ‘20s and ‘30s, or if he’s just romanticizing it again because his head wasn’t fucked up back then. Either way, he decides he doesn’t like this as much. The sky is annoyingly brown with light pollution and the traffic noise below ruins the awestruck peace he thinks he remembers from his childhood.

It’s all very frustrating. All he wants to do is watch some stars, goddammit.

The trapdoor on the roof behind him rattles as someone encounters the chain he wrapped loosely through the handle and the latch; the trapdoor opens, but only enough for the person on the other side to talk through, not enough for them to see (or shoot) through.

“Bucky?” It’s Clint, and something in Bucky’s chest lurches with something that feels a little like guilt. He didn’t mean to lock Clint out when he came up here; all he wants is a little peace. Clint, of all people, can no doubt understand this. Which is why Bucky stands and goes to undo the chain and lets him up onto the roof with him, even offering a hand to help haul Clint and his broken leg up the last few rungs of the ladder.

“Shit, Bucky, you’re really makin’ me work to get up here,” the archer complains good-naturedly, rubbing at his leg right where the cast sits, just below the knee.

Bucky shrugs casually, but feels the little stab of guilt again. “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be inclined to follow me up that ladder.”

“I’m inclined to follow you just about anywhere, man, including the sewers of a HYDRA facility, where they undoubtedly pump out all the radioactive goo that makes their _other_ pet projects so freaky.”

“That was once.”

Clint glances pointedly at his leg. “Yeah. That makes it completely better, thank god it was only once.” 

“Let it go, Barton.”

“No, that’s what you did.”

Bucky blinks, exasperated. “I’m sorry for dropping you into probably-radioactive goo that happened to be contained in a big cement vat which happened hit you in the leg, is that what you wanted to hear?”

Clint smirks, smug and content with his victory, and no doubt completely shameless about using his injury as a tactic. “Yes, yes it is,” he says as Bucky rolls his eyes. “But what are you doing up here, anyway?” he asks, suddenly serious. “Nothin’ to watch but headlights.”

“Was lookin’ for stars.” Bucky shrugs. “None out here, though, not in the city like this. Not today.” He stares morosely out at the streets and the buildings, many of which are still partially lit up even at one in the morning. “I’m not even sure if you could see them in the ‘20s, or if I’m confusing that with Romania.” He pauses, not sure if he wants to introduce the next sad note into this conversation. If anyone would understand, though, Bucky thinks again, it would be Clint. “Or if I’m confusing it with Siberia.”

Clint snakes a hand onto his shoulder and squeezes. “Somehow I doubt you’re confusing it with Siberia, Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just sits back down on the ledge and pats the space next to him, inviting Clint to come and sit with him. Cautiously, Clint does, dropping down before he swings his legs over the edge to hang in the empty space far above the street.

On an impulse, Bucky drops his head to rest on Clint’s shoulder, and is relieved when Clint doesn’t tense up or shrug him off. The archer just maneuvers so he can get his arm free and wrap it around Bucky’s own shoulders. Clint’s hand rests almost lazily across metal, and Bucky feels calm for the first time all night.

_Road Trip_

They decide to go on a road trip, just the two of them. It’s partially to see if the official Leave of Absence forms that SHIELD stocked specifically for the Avengers actually work, but mostly because they want to get out of Bed-Stuy for a couple of days (minimum. _Bare_ minimum). 

Which is how they end up in the middle of nowhere twelve hours later, with roads that curve like snakes and give them headaches, and clear skies that actually show off the Milky Way at night. It’s refreshing, actually. 

The caverns are called Lost World, and they’re supposedly the former home of some little-boy-turned-cryptid. The cave itself is dark, cool, and self-guided after the initial descent underground. Clint stares up at the top of the formation where a man had sat for sixteen days, and up at the hole in the ceiling where light filters softly down onto the rock.

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly from beside him. “I could believe this is a lost world.” The light glints dully off the metal of his fingers, the only parts of the arm left exposed by Bucky’s sleeve and the fingerless gloves he wears. It will be too warm for those soon, but the chill of the cave offers a perfect excuse for now. Clint is tempted to reach for Bucky’s hand, but smiles lopsidedly at him instead. “So that's where the Bat Boy supposedly fell in, right?”

Clint nods rapidly, excited. “Yep, they say he wandered over to the sinkhole during a picnic with his parents and the ground gave out.” He points to the hole and traces the path the kid might have fallen, sighting along his arm like he would an arrow. “Bumpy fall,” he comments, “it's a wonder he didn't break all his bones and die.”

Bucky snorts. “Says you. I’ve seen you take harder falls and walk them off.” He pauses, considering. “Limp them off, mostly intact.”

“So have you!”

He shrugs. “I’m a super soldier, of course I did. You, on the other hand, are all breakable and human.”

“I’m also not ten years old,” Clint shoots back.

That gets him a wry smile. It looked funny on Bucky’s face, which Clint feels like he mostly only ever sees wearing a scowl or an expression that passes for neutral. Smiles are a rarity that Clint can’t help but appreciate. “Aren’t you?”

_Early Morning_

“Hey, FRIDAY,” Clint says somewhere around two in the morning after a three-day-long mission that called the whole team out. Tony had insisted they all stay at the upstate compund for a couple of days. “Anyone in the kitchen right now?”

“No, Agent Barton,” comes the AI’s accented voice. “The entire communal floor is empty at the moment. Perhaps your clock is broken? It’s two AM.”

Clint looks exasperatedly at the ceiling, where he always sort of directs his addresses to FRIDAY despite no evidence that this is actually where her cameras and sensors are. “Jesus, FRIDAY, who set your sarcasm levels? I think they mighta gone a little overboard.”

“You can blame Mister Stark.”

“...That explains it actually. Too early for this shit, though. Consider yourself blocked. Flash if it’s urgent.” He slips his hearing aids out and into his pocket, padding barefoot out of his room and into the chilly hallway. Rolling his shoulders, he wriggles deeper into his hoodie (Hawkeye merch off the internet, because Nat is simultaneously a little shit and also the best) and heads for the kitchen.

He’s been awake for hours longer than can possibly be good for him in his current state, but he’s too exhausted and still jittery from the fight for anything but coffee to do the trick. Tony’s coffee maker is probably smarter than Clint is (and it’s definitely smarter than Clint pretends to be), but after several misfires in the first few times staying at the Tower, he’s finally learned that he really only needs two buttons and a lever for a cup of normal, piping hot black coffee. Clint is pretty sure there’s an option for the machine to doctor it up with cream and sugar, but he’s not sure he’d trust it even if he could find it.

The sugar shaker is significantly less full than before by the time he’s done with it. Steam is dissipating from the window above the kitchen sink. Clint stares groggily at the tired eyes of his reflection, moving the spoon in mechanical circles until he realizes the sugar is probably definitely mixed in and he’s sloshing coffee down the side of the mug. “Aw, coffee...”

There’s a low hum of words that he can’t make out, and someone else is messing with the coffee machine. Clint doesn’t bother with the hearing aids. “Didn’t catch that,” he tells Bucky flatly. 

Bucky spins him gently by the shoulder and faces him straight on. “I said,” he repeats clearly, “that you probably shouldn’t be talking to yourself like that.” He poured a little sugar into his own coffee and gave it a stir that seemed to Clint more cursory than actually effective.

“Who are you, you hardly put any sugar in that. What’s the point?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’m gonna watch a movie. That gonna bother you?” Clint gestures to his ears, and Bucky nods. “I’ll put the subtitles on in case you want to join me,” he says before he walks away, not waiting for Clint to figure out whether he wants to or not.

Clint does.

The carpeting in what Tony grandiosely calls The Entertainment Center is squishy and supposedly very good for acoustics, but Clint’s feet appreciate it more than his ears do. It’s almost as nice as the actual sofas, though if Clint has to pick one to sleep on, he usually goes for the couches. Still, he opts to sit on the floor this time, leaning back against the sofa base and digging his toes into the carpet while Bucky combs through Netflix. He settles on something called _Hector and the Search for Happiness_ , which seems safe and non-threatening enough. Can’t go wrong with Simon Pegg, after all, right? ‘S probably funny.

Which doesn’t explain how Clint ends up leaning heavily on Bucky’s legs, wondering what, exactly, the fuck he thinks he’s doing, mostly with his life. Simon Pegg is getting some sort of brain scan for a scientific study, and probably wondering what, exactly, the fuck _he_ thinks he’s doing, probably in that lab. But Clint is comfortable and he’s sleepy and he’s not at all complaining about the hand that’s been carding through his hair for the last hour.

The movie ends, and Clint doesn’t move. Bucky does, but only far enough to sink onto the floor next to Clint, who is still slumped over far enough that the line between his personal space and Bucky’s is blurred. “You’re still petting me like I’m Nat’s cat,” he mumbled.

There’s a hum of words but Clint has no fucking clue what they are; he’s too tired to try to read Bucky’s lips. “Yes,” he says. “Or, I dunno, maybe no. It would help if I knew what you said.” 

Instead of repeating himself, Bucky just kisses Clint, once, softly, a quiet statement of intent rather than some grand declaration. This time, he does wait for Clint to figure out whether he wants this or not.

Clint does.

_Now_

“Aaaaand, that’s pretty much what happened!” Clint grins triumphantly, slinging an arm around Bucky’s shoulders as they lean back against the booth seat. Bucky doesn’t say anything, just smiles fondly (which Clint counts as a win) and tips up his beer bottle again.

They’ve all come to a bar that Tony wouldn’t shut up about until Rhodey swore they’d all go. Something about teambuilding, but everyone knows that it’s best when Tony just gets his way as far as restaurants go. There were debates about going back for more schwarma for months after the Battle of New York.

“Fuck’s _sake_ , Clint, I _know_ , we all do, most of us were there for the majority of it!” Kate leans forward and knocks her head repeatedly on the table. America pats her back sympathetically. “We all watched you guys flirt for _weeks_ ,” Kate groans, “endless weeks, and nothing ever happened. Natasha, please, I am begging you to back me up, here.”

Nat raises an eyebrow at her best friend. “Hawkeye’s got a point, Barton.”

“Thank you!”

“Wait, wait, wait. Wait,” Tony cuts in, “you’re telling me that you two actually started making out on the couch after some feel-good movie?” He laughs, shoulders shaking as he rocks the uneven table back and forth. “How much more rom-com can you possibly get?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You wanna find out?”

“Buck,” Steve warns. “Don’t you do it, come on man, don’t―”

Bucky cuts him off with the most sickeningly sweet voice any of them have ever heard come out of his mouth. “Cl _int_ ,” he says, wrapping both of his arms around his boyfriend’s neck. “Clint, I wanna stay with you forever. I think...” He looks down, bites his lip, looks back up with a dopey, lovestruck look on his face. “I think―”

“Oh my _God_.” It’s Sam who cuts in this time, clutching Bruce’s shoulder as he doubles over in his seat, looking torn between gagging and laughing his ass off. “I’m gonna need you to stop that right there, man, that’s disturbing. I watched you tear a steering wheel out of a car, this is not even a little bit right.” Bruce looks uncomfortable, but laughs anyway.

Wanda shakes her head. “I don’t think I want to know why you’re so good at that, Barnes.” She looks around the table. “And we are _never_ telling Scott about this.” Vision looks confused, and Wanda pats his hand. “Don’t worry about it, Vis.”

Bucky smirks, immediately ruining the starstruck face, and settles back into his seat, while Clint’s arm finds its way back around his shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun with this! I've never done a Big Bang before, but it's been a really cool experience. Clint and Bucky are my faves! Originally this was going to be a lot longer and have an actual plot, but I had to shelf that project in favor of not biting off more than I could chew. (Still exists though. Just...ponder that.)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as [awbarton-no](http://awbarton-no.tumblr.com)!


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